


Guardian

by tsurai



Series: He's Something, Alright [1]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (of a terminally ill character), Assisted Suicide, BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Magic, always-a-demon!Stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yes, he’d wanted freedom from his position as a crossroads dealer, but the pain of losing her – losing Mom – dragged up memories of the years spent on the rack, tortured and broken for nothing but the pleasure of it even as his soul slowly devoured itself and filled the holes with brimstone. The hurt was comparable. “Can you love us?” she’d asked once, and he knew the answer now: <i>yes, yes I can, and I am so fucked.</i>"</p><p>Stiles' Mom made a Deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because I’ve been hankering for some fic where always-a-demon!Stiles kicks the Nogitsune’s furry ass the moment it tries to set up shop in Stiles’ head, but the world has not seen fit to deliver. This has become a monster. You can get short installations once a week [**here.**](http://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com/post/90201289476/fic-guardian-1) __  
> 

Claudia Stilinski was a druid. A fairly powerful one, even, though she stood with no coven and drew no attention to herself. But all the power in the world could not help her now – she’d sifted through every book and every resource available to her. She had prayed to the Earth for a blessing, to the Christian God for a miracle; something, anything to save her baby boy.

In her desperation, she finally latched on to the exact opposite of a miracle.

Claudia patted a small mound of dirt down before sitting back on her heels, one arm steadying the precious bundle against her breast. In the sling, her baby breathed shallowly, but otherwise made no noise. The forest around the crossroads was quiet but for the hoot of an owl in the distance. A waning moon grinned down from the sky, bathing the road around her in weak light. There was nothing.

“Please,” she whispered, eyes beginning to tear. “Please, please, please, let this work.”

“Well, well, this is unusual,” a voice called from behind her. Claudia stiffened and turned to look.  The dark-skinned woman with long hair stood out from the scenery in her red cocktail dress, but the feature that truly marked her as _other_ were the milk-white eyes. It stalked forward as Claudia stood, brushing dirt off her knees. “It’s not every day that a demon is called on by a magic-wielder, let alone a druid. Your kind tends not to dirty their hands with deals.”

“I’ve tried everything else.” Claudia barely managed to keep her voice steady, but she didn’t break from the demon’s gaze as it raised one delicate eyebrow.

“What do you want, then?” it hummed. “Money, fame? It can’t be power. You have more than enough of that already.” It looked her up and down, chin tilting as is fixated on the sling. “ _Oh_ , how precious,” it breathed, red-stained lips curling upwards.

Claudia fought down the urge to flinch and shield the bundle. “I need you to save my son.”

“ _Do_ you? What’s wrong with him?” it hissed, crowding into her space. Claudia wrapped both arms around her son but didn’t step back.

“He’s…he’s got a problem with his brain. It’s not developing properly – the doctor gave him three to six months before…before he dies. I can’t have any more children. Please, he and my husband, they’re all I’ve got left in the world. I need you to fix him,” Claudia begged. For her son, she was prepared to swallow any pride and sensibility she had left to grovel before the hellish creature. She did flinch, violently, when it reached toward the sling.

“I need to touch the boy,” it said neutrally. “Or I won’t know what to fix.”

Claudia stayed in place this time as it parted the sling, manicured nails settling over her boy’s pale cheek. A moment later it drew away.

“I can’t fix him.” Her heart stopped.

“What? No, you have to! It’s what you do – I’ll give you my soul right this minute, just make him better!”

“I can’t, you twit!” the demon snarled, its beautiful face twisting inhumanly. “That,” it gestured at the baby, “is just an empty meatsack running on autonomous impulses. There’s no soul now, if there ever was. No soul, nothing I can fix.”

Claudia felt the words hit her like a baseball bat to the chest. She collapsed back to her knees, a puppet with its strings cut. “Oh, goddess,” she bit out through a sob. “Isn’t there something, anything you can do?”

The demon was silent for a while, but when it didn’t move Claudia glanced up. Its cloud-white eyes seemed to be looking straight through her, eyebrows furrowed in thought. It took a breath, hissing through its teeth as it bit red-painted lips. “I am very old,” it started, still not quite looking at her. “I have been in Hell for longer than any human can comprehend, gathered power the peons of the Upper Circles would kill for. I’m only working _this_ dead-end job,” it gestured around them, “because I will not fight for the current regime. I want to escape permanently, to walk free on Earth again.” Finally its gaze seemed to focus on her face, a grin curling across its face. “If you make a deal with me, your son will live.”

She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe for the terrifying hope of it. “How?”

“Give me the boy’s body.”

Claudia was up and on her feet before she knew what was happening, but she wasn’t fast enough at the demon caught one arm. “No! You can’t have my baby!”

“Stupid woman!” the demon growled. “I won’t take him from you – I’ll _become_ him. Ten years with your precious child to love and raise as your own. Think about it,” it leaned in to breathe against her ear. “Your boy will laugh, will listen to bedtime stories. Will be everything you ever wanted.”

Claudia trembled, but inside she felt frozen. She could picture it all too easily – teaching him to walk, to talk, to cuddle with her and John at night. The thought of her husband brought sadness. He’d hate her for doing this, but…

“Can you really?” she whispered.

“Can I what?”

“Can you really love us?” Her voice was full of the tears she still refused to shed, but strong enough despite that.

The demon gazed at her, eyebrows knitted, before it admitted, seemingly without artifice, “I can try.”

“And if I make this deal, I’ll die in ten years?”

“You could get run over by a car tomorrow,” the demon shrugged, “but your soul will be yours to keep for ten years.”

Claudia breathed in, out. “I want one more thing.” When the demon simply looked at her, she continued: “I want you to watch over John, protect him when I’m gone, until he dies.”

“You’re asking for quite the boon – to give up the freedom I’m bargaining for. That will steepen the price.”

“Will you take years off my deal?” It was the best she could offer in the circumstances. They both knew the demon held all the power in this bargain. It twirled a ringlet around one finger, biting its lip again before it deemed to speak.

“No, I don’t think so. You can have the full ten years, but in return for this…you’ll give me your magic.”

Claudia gaped. The thought of giving up her magic had never actually occurred to her, so unnatural was the thought. Outside of human sacrifice, it was almost impossible to take or augment a druid’s power.

“Oh, don’t be like _that_ ,” the demon sighed. “I need non-demon magic to bind myself to the body, unless you’d rather the kid stay an ungrowing child forever. Demon magic doesn’t account for healing without a soul. I’d also need the magic to stay hidden. After all, you don’t want hunters and other demons coming after your precious son, do you?”

Claudia thought for several long moments, torn. “So if I make this deal, you become my son, I get ten years, and you’ll stay with John until he dies.”

“In a nutshell,” the demon grinned. “I even promise not to help your husband along on the way to the afterlife.”

She hadn’t thought of that. This deal was riddled with loopholes, and there were likely a million ways the demon could weasel out of it, but…this was the best she could get. “Okay,” she breathed.

“Yes?” the demon leaned toward her.

“Yes, it’s a deal.”

The moment the words passed her lips the demon crowed, dragging her by the shoulders into a deep, filthy kiss. Claudia gasped, all the air leaving her lungs as magic surged through the portal they’d made with their mouths. A second later, the magic was gone. Claudia couldn’t feel the forest anymore. She stumbled, stunned, as the demon let go of her shoulders to wrap its arms around its body. Strange light started to shine under its skin, rolling up muscles and bones like lightning in a cloud.

“Quickly,” the demon gritted out. “Speak the binding!”

“The what?” Claudia had no idea what it was talking about.

“The name! What’s the boy’s name?” it gasped.

She recovered some equilibrium. “It’s Świętomierz, after my father.”

“Świętomierz,” the demon breathed, then threw its head back, black curls flying as it screamed, light cascading from its eyes, mouth, and nose. The light reached Claudia like a bullet train, throwing her on her back. Her head struck a stone, and the last thing she heard before the world faded was a high, thin cry.

Her baby’s voice.

* * *

 “Mommy, look!” Stiles pumped his legs a bit harder, trying to get more lift. Mom glanced up from her book.

“I see you, _kochanie_. Don’t swing too high!”

Stiles wasn’t worried; as long as he didn’t fall off or try to jump from here, he’d be fine. Last summer’s broken arm and six weeks in a cast had taught him that much. It was weird sometimes, being human again with a human healing rate. For the first several years he’d had to constantly remind himself that he couldn’t just throw this body around willy-nilly, that he couldn’t walk around on broken legs and not pay the price in pain and hospital bills.

It was also strange taking a male host for the first time in centuries. So many, _many_ centuries ago at the dawn of man, he’d been a female courtesan in an era when humans were starting to realize they could pay for such things, and even in Hell in the years afterwards his form reflected a feminine disposition. Puberty was going to be a very interesting time, certainly.

“Stiles!” a voice called from across the park. He looked up to see a little boy and his mother crossing the grass.

“Hey, Scotty!” Stiles stopped swinging, kicking woodchips up everywhere as he braked with both feet. Scott was technically his best and only friend in this life. Last summer when Stiles was laid up in an arm cast and not nearly as functional as he wanted to be, he’d been benched with Scott at recess since the other boy was prone to asthma attacks when combining the outdoors with any type of exercise. They’d bonded over their mutual restlessness and hate for green Skittles. (Years later, Scott would burst through his window crowing that their most hated color had been changed from lime to green apple.) “Hi, Mrs. McCall,” Stiles chirped, trotting over to tackle Scott in a hug. This was one of the things he adored about being human – the ability to touch others without pain or derision. He took advantage as often as possible. Then he grabbed Scott’s hand (eight was still little enough to do that, wasn’t it? Stiles decidedly did not care about the human standards for these things) and dragged the other boy to the swing set.

“Get on and I’ll push you,” he ordered, but Scott just smiled and scrambled into the seat. This was something that wouldn’t set off his asthma; something they could do together. As Stiles started pushing, Melissa sat on the bench next to his Mom and pulled out a matching novel. The two mothers had their own little book club over the summer, whenever Melissa could get off work. They fell into discussion right away, one eye on Scott and Stiles at all times. Stiles couldn’t fight back a grin. For now, he was content as a human, one step closer to freedom on Earth. This was good.

This was good.

* * *

 Stiles leaned over the sink, staring into the mirror with intense concentration. Objectively, he liked his human eyes – they were a light brown that shone almost amber in the right angle of sunlight. Dad always commented on them, saying he’d grow up to be a heartbreaker, just like Mom.

Right now, he’d give anything for them not to be human. He wanted his cloudy white back – even the lowest ink-black would be acceptable in the circumstances – but the druid power coursing through him functioned too well, and he’d never be a demon in anything but mindset as long as it hid him from prying entities.

“Shit,” he gasped. “Shit, shit, shit.”

It was three months until his ninth birthday, but today Mom’d come back from the hospital with bad news. After months of nightmares and insomnia, a MRI showed signs of rapid degeneration in the frontal-temporal lobes. Mom was very careful in explaining to him and Dad what that meant: blackouts, dementia, and eventual death. She’d held their hands, trying to give them some comfort, but Stiles only felt cold.

Later, she tucked him in for the night. “It’s okay, darling, I have little more than a year left anyway.” She said this with a soft smile, as if that made it better. It didn’t. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. Claudia Stilinski had another year and four months on her contract before the hounds came, and it would be quick. Stiles would have made it quick.

“This isn’t right. It’s too soon,” he whispered around the lump formed in his throat. This fucking human, who’d offered him a means of freedom and then burrowed so far into his heart he knew he’d never be able to get her out again. On the crossroads he’d promised to try to love her, and she’d made it exceptionally easy with every kiss and comforting touch that he hadn’t felt in any of the millennia before.

Stiles looked away from the mirror, tears pooling in all-too-human eyes. He couldn’t even do anything with the druid power – light a candle, cast runes maybe – but the magic didn’t belong to him and would never obey for something as intensive as healing a brain. It was likely he’d kill both himself and Claudia in the process. The notion made him feel like there was an invisible hand in his chest, squeezing a vice around his heart. _Maybe I shouldn’t have made the deal_ , his own traitorous voice whispered. Yes, he’d wanted freedom from his position as a crossroads dealer, but the pain of losing her – losing _Mom_ – dragged up memories of the years spent on the rack, tortured and broken for nothing but the pleasure of it even as his soul slowly devoured itself and filled the holes with brimstone. The hurt was comparable. “Can you love us?” she’d asked once, and he knew the answer now: _yes, yes I can, and I am so fucked._

* * *

“Sh-tm’ysh…” the noise startled Stiles out of his light slumber. A small blanket slid from his shoulders to the floor as he sat up. He cautiously leaned toward to hospital bed. The last time Mom had been awake…well, it had been bad.

“Mom?” he whispered. Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked at him. “Mom…do you know who I am?”

Claudia Stilinski smiled wanly. “M’baby. Świętomierz,” she slurred. Stiles sighed and let the tension run from his body – she was lucid. “Where’s…Dad?”

“He got called in. There’s a huge pile-up on the highway and they needed everyone. He’ll be back soon,” he took her hand, hesitating. “Do you remember the last time you woke up?”

Mom’s eyebrows crinkled, searching for something just above his head, before she let out a crackling sob. “Oh, _kochanie_ , m’so sorry. I didn’t mean it,” she wailed, her grip tightening marginally around his even as her flesh burned fever hot.

“It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay. I know you didn’t,” he rushed out, placing his hand on hers. He tried to project comfort, as much as any child could, but in his head he just heard the shattering of glass and screaming ( _you’re not my son, my baby, get_ out _of him!)._ No matter that she was off her head – the words were true enough, and the truth hurt. Scott’s mom had been the one to pull him from the room that time. She took him to the nurses’ station and sat him in a corner with a blanket and a Styrofoam cup of cocoa, while Dad stayed back trying to get through to Mom. All he’d been able to do was sit with his chin on his knees and cry.

“Really, I love you,” Claudia whispered. “I know you’re – that you’re not…you’re my son. You are.”

“I know; it wasn’t you. Dad and I were so _scared,_ though. It’s been two weeks.”

“Two,” she breathed, tears spilling down her parchment-thin cheeks. “Since I’ve been l-luuu…since I’ve been awake?” She sagged against her pillows, hand still clasped hot in both of his. “Then this is the end of the line, _kotku_. I can feel the fever in me now.” Her words were frank, honest with him in a way most parents would be uneasy with due to his body’s age. “You should not have to watch me suffer.”

He had watched thousands of souls upon the rack, tormented thousands more himself, but no, he did not want to watch this woman suffer. “I have something for you,” Stiles said, letting one hand slip from hers to reach into his jean pocket. “You…can decide if you want it.”

She turned her head to look at him as he opened his hand, revealing a capped syringe full of clear liquid. “Świętomierz…” she trailed off, voice trembling.

“I know how much you hate wasting away, Mom. It’s killing Dad just as slowly and I-” Stiles swallowed. “I think you deserve some peace, and this will be. Peaceful, and quick.” They sat in silence for a few moments, just looking at one another. Then she let out a long, slow breath, and nodded. Stiles sat forward, pulling the cap off with his teeth so he wouldn’t have to let go of her hand. He looked up.

“I love you.” His child’s voice contained more weight than was possible for a nine-year-old boy. “These past years have been…some of the best of my existence.”

His mother’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “And seeing you grow has brought light to my life, Świętomierz, my bright boy. I love you – will always love you. Thank you.”

Stiles put the needle against her arm, against the stark blue of her veins, and slid it under the skin.

“Take care of your father for me,” she whispered, a reminder.

“Of course,” Stiles said, and he depressed the plunger.

* * *

“Of course, Stiles, let’s go find a dead body,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s feed your bloodlust by dragging your best friend into the woods to be bitten by a _fucking_ werewolf.” Stiles yanked a steel mixing bowl from the cabinet, sending dishes clattering. It wasn’t silver, but it was better than nothing. He took the bowl upstairs and shut the door to his room before crossing to the desk, pulling out a bottle of ink and a lighter. “Okay, let’s do this.”

Stiles leaned over by the bed, raking his fingers across the carpet until he caught a few long, brown hairs – probably left from the last round of Halo he’d played with Scott. Good thing he wasn’t all that skilled at keeping on top of vacuuming. He dumped the ink into the bowl, an improvised black mirror, and pulled his blinds shut to dim the room. Carefully, Stiles twisted the hairs into a bunch and flicked the lighter under it, dropping it before he burnt his fingers. He swirled the ink with both hands on the bowl until finally, the singed hair sank. The chant that slipped past his lips then was a mere whisper, in a tongue older than Latin though the spell was all the simpler for it. As the ink settled, reflections on the makeshift black mirror began to blur. He squinted at the ink as a shape gradually came into focus: it was a flower, cone-shaped with many purple petals shooting off from the central stalk. _Wolfsbane_ , he thought. Stiles let out a sigh of relief, his breath disturbing the surface as the image vanished.

Though werewolves had the same basic origins – a curse from Apollo, according to classical Greek myth that Stiles hadn’t been topside at the time to verify – there were two distinct European lycanthropes that he knew about. Romanian werewolves (the ones that gave credence to the silver bullet theories) were truly cursed, a product of ancestors too ignorant or bloodthirsty to seek out the aid of druids or magicians of the era. The full moon was a time of horror, when such beings would lose their minds and hunt either to create packmates or harvest human hearts.

Stiles had been deathly afraid of seeing a silver bullet or knife in his mirror; a sign that he should put Scott down before the kid killed anyone. Scott wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he killed an innocent person, as Stiles well knew. Sometimes the human’s – now werewolf’s – goodliness and naiveté was admirable, but mostly it was fucking annoying. Thankfully, he’d seen wolfsbane in the mirror. French werewolves could be just as nasty as their counterparts, but their kind had a long-standing tradition of pack hierarchy and druid emissaries that lent stability to their race as a whole. Plus, like the Romanians, the werewolves of French ancestry had long lines of hunters dedicated to subduing the rabid ones.

Stiles sighed again. The good news was that he didn’t have to off his friend, and Scott could learn to control his wolfy side. The bad news: that was all he really knew about werewolves. He’d cut a deal with one years upon years ago – a young girl-child who’d wanted her brother brought back to life after he’d been killed by an alpha – but she’d been taken down by hunters soon after the revival and he’d never had the occasion to learn more. Stiles hadn’t even bothered to learn any magic specific to wolves, since there was never a situation where his demon powers hadn’t proved useful. He needed to know more.

“Shit,” Stiles raked fingers over his buzzed scalp. “I’m gonna have to remember where I buried a few bodies…”

* * *

Explaining werewolves to Scott goes about as well as he could have hoped – that is, terribly. It didn’t help that he was so distracted by Allison, but when Stiles tried to call off the party date he was thrown heavily into a wall. He didn’t flinch when Scott drew back a fist, too busy blinking stars out of his eyes from his head cracking into the plaster.

“I-I’m sorry,” Scott mumbled, stepping away to pick up his bag. Stiles still felt too dizzy from the blow on top of an adderall overdose to move.

“Scott,” he called. The boy stopped. “When was the last time you hit me like that? Or anyone?” Stiles took no small pleasure in his friend’s full-body flinch. _Serves him right_. “You’ve never lost your temper like that before, and,” Stiles continued, pulling his desk chair off the ground, “look at this.”

Scott turned his head, looking over his shoulder as Stiles swiveled the chair to show him three parallel gouges in the back. His friend’s mouth dropped open. “Just for a second, I want you to imagine doing this to Allison,” Stiles said quietly.

“Oh my God.” Scott dropped his backpack to the floor, looking ill.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he replied, straddling the chair with his legs wedged between the back and armrests. He agreed with the sentiment, if not the exact wording of it. It wasn’t like he could walk around saying “oh my Satan” either, considering his views on Hell’s political climate and the fact that he didn’t really need any Satanic rumors to add to his generally off-putting demeanor amongst the gossip mill of Beacon Hills.

“Oh my God, what am I going to do?” Scott looked at his hands, which looked perfectly human at that moment. “I can’t go the party like this!”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Priorities, Scotty. Just tell Allison something came up and ask if she’d rather go out for milkshakes or something on Saturday night. You know, _after_ the full moon.”

“What, like, on an actual date? I don’t know, man. What if she doesn’t want to?”

Stiles foresaw a lot of facepalming in the near future. “ _Focus_ , dude! Allison is not your number one priority right now, considering any little thing could set you off. Which would end up with little pieces of awesome,” he patted his chest, “scattered all over the place. We need to work on your control. Also, I’m pretty sure there are people out there whose job it is to hunt you down and gut you like a fish if you actually hurt anyone.”

“Wait, _what_?”

* * *

Finding a dealer of dried aconite was surprisingly difficult even for Stiles, who had a black belt in Google-fu. His initial search suggestions tried to convince him he was looking for dried wolf’s urine instead of wolfsbane, which, _no_. He finally managed to find a third-party seller out of South Dakota, then ordered a bunch of seeds and leaf cuttings. He figured he could cultivate a corner of the backyard since Dad usually left it alone. Stiles got a great variety after some extensive reading – apparently wolfsbane didn’t just have lethal effects on wolves and humans, but different species could induce hallucinations or even healing, depending on how they were applied. He finally had cause to dig out some of the cloth-bound tomes Mom left him on druid practices. Even though he had no talent for wielding the stolen magic with any proficiency, Claudia Stilinski wanted to make sure her son was prepared for any eventuality. This included several tomes of lore, a scant bestiary written in Polish (that Stiles was making little headway in, because honestly, learning English in the first place had been difficult enough), and a heavily annotated Book of Shadows that served as the woman’s journal and grimoire. All in all, Stiles has a lot of homework to do.

* * *

Going back into the woods the night of the full moon didn’t seem like the best idea, but neither of them knew what to expect and they didn’t want to chance something happening to their parents, so the woods it had to be. After lacrosse practice where Scott showed off entirely too much, they went to Stiles’ house. He shoved a flashlight, nightvision binoculars, the bestiary, and a Polski-English dictionary into his backpack. Stiles briefly considered handcuffs, but doubted they’d hold more than a few minutes against Scott’s werewolf strength. _Too bad my order isn’t coming in for another week_ …with that thought he ran downstairs to shuffle through Dad’s desk, pulling out an unopened can of mace. It wasn’t exactly legal for civilian possession, but it’d probably do the job of distracting Scott or an alpha werewolf long enough for him to get away.

They pulled up on the edge of the Preserve, opposite where Scott was bitten and far from where the police were still searching for the girl’s body. “Feel anything yet?” he asked, setting the parking brake.

Scott squinted at the slowly-setting sun. “Not really. Just…restless…like I’ve got a lot of energy. So like you, basically,” he grinned.

Stiles clapped his shoulder. “At least _someone’s_ in a good mood. And hey, I was thinking during practice today – you were super active but you didn’t need your inhaler at all.” Scott’s poleaxed expression made him laugh.

“Dude, I didn’t even think of that. You think being a werewolf cured my asthma?”

Stiles shrugged. “Don’t see why your super-healing powers wouldn’t extend to chronic illness. Guess that’s one good thing to come from this.” He watched as Scott looked away, frowning. A few days had passed but Scott wasn’t handling becoming a creature of the night very well. Stiles could sympathize, though he couldn’t quite understand. He’d sold his soul in an era where humanity was still steeped in the practice of magic and the ways of demons, and even in Hell he hadn’t fought becoming a demon. Rather, he’d reveled in the sloughing-off of his humanity, had enjoyed the power for centuries before he started to understand the kind of freedom he’d given up in return. He hadn’t felt bad about the suffering he’d inflicted there, either; the great majority of souls in Hell had a good reason for being there, after all.

They walked some length into the forest, far enough off the beaten path that he wasn’t too concerned about running into anyone. Everywhere he looked was just trees, dead leaves, and a little undergrowth, so Stiles finally picked a spot and flopped down against a tree trunk.

“Nervous?” he asked, breaking the comfortable silence that came from years of knowing each other.

“A little,” Scott said, hands in his pockets as he paced nearby. “Do you think there are any hunters around here? Since that girl was killed…”

“Probably.” Stiles pulled out the bestiary, hoping the get some of the _wilkołak_ section done before the moon came out. “I don’t think werewolves murdering people tend to go over well, and since this guy bit you without asking I’m guessing he’s got a few screws loose. That makes him more dangerous.”

“Without asking?” Scott sounded bewildered.

“Look, most of the literature I’ve been able to find about your type of werewolf says that alphas hold consent in high esteem. Biting you without asking is like, werewolf rape in the supernatural world.”

“Alphas? What are you talking about?”

Exasperated, Stiles snapped his book shut. “Did you even skim the book I have you yesterday? That had a lot of important stuff.”

“I’ve been a little busy with real life, okay?” Scott threw up his hands.

“This _is_ your life now. I don’t know if you think ignoring it will make it go away or you’ll find some miracle to make you human again  - and that’s _really_ unlikely – but if you aren’t careful you could kill someone, or get killed. I don’t want to trip over half a best friend lying around in the woods, Scott!” By this time Stiles was on his feet, yelling with both hands clenched in fists at his sides. The sun was completely down at this point, and any minute now the moon would be out.

“It’s _my_ life. I just want to be normal, okay?” Scott growled, his eyes burning luminescent yellow in the falling dusk. Stiles held up both hands when Scott took a step forward.

“Whoa, hey, calm down, dude.” He didn’t seem to be listening, taking a few more steps. Stiles’ heart started jumping like a jackrabbit’s. He bent down, both eyes on his friend as he fumbled a canister out of the bag. “Scott, listen, you’ve gotta get a hold of yourself. I don’t want to have to use this stuff on you.” He shook the can a little. Scott paused, a hand going up to his hair as his eyes darted between Stiles’ and the can of mace, but the growling hadn’t stopped. “Yeah, that’s right buddy, it’s your good friend Stiles. You don’t want to hurt me, right?”

There was a pause, then, “Shitapparentlyyoudo-” Stiles staggered to the side as the werewolf lunged, cursing his body’s lack of grace. He’d possessed dead meatsuits with infinitely more poise. His hand went up on autopilot as Scott came around for another lunge, and his friend let out a blood-curdling howl as the mace hit his face. Stiles tripped backwards onto his ass. Above them, the moon peeked bright through gaps in the tree canopy. By the time he regained his feet, Scott was gone. “Son of a bitch!” That howl was sure to attract the attention of hunters, possibly even the alpha if he was in the woods tonight.

He tucked the mace in his sweatshirt, threw his book back in the bag, and pulled out the flashlight and binoculars. He shouldered the pack and stood for a minute. Which way had Scott gone?

* * *

Stiles had been walking for close to thirty minutes when he heard the crunch of leaves in the distance. Cautiously, he turned off the flashlight and held the nightvision binoculars to his face. Even with the forest lit up in green light, he couldn’t make out anything from where the noise originated. “Scott?” he called softly, wary. There was another rustle about twenty feet away. Either whatever it was moved fast, or there was more than one. _Oh Hell, should’ve brought a gun with me too._ There was a sharp whistle, and then a _thunk_ as something impacted a tree right by his head. “Holy fucking shit,” Stiles flailed. A crossbow bolt was buried in the wood. _Hunters_. Best to go with the harmless human approach. “Holy Hell, _dude_! You almost killed me.”

(He was actually pretty sure that, if he was ever close to really dying, the magic he’d taken from Mom would kick in. Or, failing that, his demon powers would return to ensure he didn’t commit what he saw as a breach of the deal. Whether the aftermath would result in him still possessing a corporeal body was still up in the air.)

Three men stomped their way out of the shadows. Two were bearing guns, but Stiles could immediately tell the stubbly one in the middle was the guy to look out for, even if he was only armed with a crossbow.

“What are you doing out here?” Stubble Guy snapped.

“I’m the one who should be asking that! You almost shot me! What are _you_ doing out here?”

“Hunting,” Stubble Guy answered as the other two kept silent. The guy on the right lifted a flashlight, shining it in Stiles’ eyes. _Checking for eyeshine_. “Now answer the question, kid.”

Stiles thought fast. “Owl watching,” he held up the binoculars. “Like birdwatching but, you know, at night. Because owls are nocturnal.” Stubbly didn’t look like he believed him. Whatever. “What are you guys hunting, anyway? Because deer are out of season and I don’t know what else you’d hunt with buckshot or crossbows.” He gestured at the guns the men carried. “My dad, the Sherriff, really doesn’t like people hunting without a license.”

Stiles suppressed a grin as the men traded glances. Stubble Guy attempted a smile that looked more like a grimace. “We’re looking for a mountain lion. Why don’t you get home? The woods can be dangerous a night.”

“Especially if there’s someone shooting at you,” Stiles said, grinning as Stubble Guy scowled at him. “Yeah, I get it. No more bird watching for me. You guys have fun,” he called, throwing them a mock salute. They let him go.

When Stiles was far enough away he broke into a run, cursing the fact he’d left his phone in the Jeep’s cup holder. He had to call Scott and warn him. There was nothing more he could do in the woods tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

He saw Derek Hale for the second time through a webcam as the man slammed his best friend against a wall. He couldn’t hear through the crappy microphone, but the werewolf was obviously muttering threats.

“Hey!” he called. The figure in the screen jerked like he’d forgotten Stiles was watching. _Rude_. “Get away from Scott before I come over and wolfsbane your furry ass.” Even through the grainy image Stiles could see Derek’s dark eyebrows fly up. He was surprised when, instead of leaping out the way he’d come, Derek approached the computer.

“Are you a hunter?” he asked in the same gruff voice from the Preserve.

“No, but I know my shit. Keep away from my friend if you know what’s good for you,” Stiles snapped. “Also, you should probably leave now.” He could see the glow of yellow eyes over one leather-clad shoulder. Scott leapt, but Derek was quicker and Stiles winced as his friend collided very audibly with the corner of the desk. Derek was gone by the time he recovered. “Tough luck, dude.”

* * *

 

They dug up what they thought was a girl’s body, and both were taken aback when faced with the sharp end of a wolf.

“But I swear it smelled like her,” Scott said. Stiles shifted forward. A wolf in California was still unusual even with werewolves around, and he swore he could feel the faintest glimmer of magic on around the grave. He reached out carefully, carding a bit of dirt-caked fur. It felt real enough. “Gross dude, don’t touch it!” But Stiles was already standing up, gaze fixed on the purple flower growing at the edge of the clearing. _Wolfsbane_. He wrapped both hands in his sleeves to keep the poison from his skin and yanked. A long rope of hemp and – most likely – wolfsbane scattered dirt everywhere as he pulled it from the ground. He followed it around and around the pit they’d dug in increasingly smaller circles. _It’s a spiral_? They meant something different to every culture as one of the most prominent naturally-occurring shapes on Earth. Some peoples associated them with rebirth and eternity, others with a return to the earth. If only he could remember what it meant for wolves… Scott cried out just as Stiles pulled up the end of the rope, scrambling back out of the pit.

“Holy crap,” Stiles breathed as they both peered in at the torso of a pale brunet woman. In life, she had likely been beautiful, but he was more interested in the method of concealing the body. Was the rope werewolf based magic, or could it work on anything dead? That could be _really_ useful.

“So Derek really did kill her,” Scott said, voice full of fear. Stiles looked down at the rope. Something was niggling at the back of his mind. Spirals. Wolves and spirals. What…

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Actually, I don’t think he did.”

“What?” Scott turned but shied away when confronted with the rope.

“Uh, whoops.” Stiles turned and tossed it to the edge of the clearing, then took off his overshirt and bundled the plaid poison-side in. “He buried her under a spiral. For werewolves, spirals are symbols of revenge.”

“So, what, he was getting back at her for something?”

Stiles shook his head. “Nah. Spirals are for revenge owed. If he’d killed her, he wouldn’t make a mark. I think this means he’s swearing vengeance for her death.”

“But if Derek didn’t kill her…”

“That means there’s another wolf. And if I had to guess, that one’s the alpha, not Derek.”

* * *

 Stiles called it in on a payphone once they got back into town. Considering the body’s placement and partial burial, it was highly likely that Derek would be called in for questioning, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it. The guy had refused to clarify anything – not denying being the one to bite Scott, never mind that he couldn’t have turned the kid in the first place, or that he had no reason to kill the girl. Stiles did wonder how Derek was going pass it off – even though an autopsy would undoubtedly reveal that she’d been killed by nothing human, the werewolf still had to explain why he’d buried her in his yard instead of reporting it to the police.

But whatever, he had other things to worry about. Like his idiot best friend insisting on playing the game tonight when he knew hunters would be on the lookout.

* * *

 The game went better than he could have hoped, and the lovesick puppy expression on Scott’s face said good things about his disappearance in the aftermath. Stiles allowed himself some tentative hope that everything would be alright.

Then the bus driver died.

“Wait, Derek’s eyes glowed blue?”

“Yeah, when he first transformed. Bright blue. Then he threw me across the room.” Scott’s jaw was clenched, and his fists tightened and relaxed as he obviously fought not to pop his claws. Stiles sat back in his desk chair.

“Huh, so he’s really not an alpha. They have red eyes. Betas have yellow or blue.”

“Oh.”

“You _still_ haven’t read the book I gave you, have you?” Stiles rolled his eyes.

“A little bit. It’s just…really ridiculous, you know?”

“Yeah, I get you buddy. Reading is boring. Luckily you’ve got me to be a font of info, right?”

“Yeah, I do,” Scott said, painfully sincere. Stiles didn’t bite back his smile and he let conversation turn to whom the alpha could possibly be, even as his gaze strayed to his partially translated bestiary. _Blue eyes_. So if Derek Hale hadn’t killed his sister, who _had_ he killed?

* * *

 

Then Derek collapsed in front of the Jeep.  “What the Hell, why is this guy _everywhere_?” Stiles jumped out of the Jeep, slamming the door shut.

Scott was next to Derek in a flash. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been shot,” the too-pale werewolf bit out as Stiles came to stand by them.

“Well why aren’t you healing?” Scott asked, voice rising as horns blared behind the Jeep.

“It’s a special bullet.”

Stiles’ eyebrows shot up. “Wolfsbane? Did Mr. Argent shoot you?” Learning that Stubbly guy was Allison’s dad had been a surprise and a half. Derek shot him a narrow-eyed look, one part surprise, two parts suspicion.

“I…don’t know,” he admitted through a tight jaw. “I was chasing the alpha.” Stiles held the wolf’s gaze, even as his eyes started to flicker electric blue. It was pretty, and incredibly indiscrete.

“Quit that!” Scott panicked, jerking forward like he could physically stop the other from wolfing out. 

“I can’t!” Derek snarled. They paused, hearing the slam of car doors as people stepped out to investigate.

“C’mon, help me put him in your car,” Scott said, already slinging one of Derek’s leather-clad arms over his shoulder.

“What? No!” Stiles protested, but didn’t stop his friend from practically throwing the werewolf in the vehicle. He sighed, scrambling in the driver’s side even as Derek demanded Scott’s help with a “you need me.”

“I hate you,” he told Scott. The last thing he wanted was a dying werewolf sweating all over his car. And if he died, Stiles would have to get the interior cleaned of any nasty stains from released bowels (the side of death no one ever talked about) and figure out some place to bury the body where his dad wouldn’t find it. All in all, this was more trouble than he’d been planning to go through today. At most, he wanted to go home, jerk off, and do homework. Maybe answer a few panicky texts about when he should make a move on his and Allison’s “study date.”

“I hate you,” he solemnly told Derek, peeling out of the parking lot with much irritation as he could muster.

* * *

Derek didn’t want to go to his own house. _Apparently_ , it wasn’t safe. _That’s what you get for living in a condemned shack, wolfboy_ , Stiles thought uncharitably.

“You look like death. Smell like it, too. What happens if Scott doesn’t find your magic bullet, hmm?”

“I have a last resort,” the werewolf huffed, and Stiles barely restrained himself from smacking him.

“What kind of last resort?” Then Derek yanked up his sleeve, revealing the bloody wound, the surrounding veins filled with encroaching black.

“Ugh,” Stiles wrinkled his nose, but didn’t recoil. He’d seen much, much worse. “Is that contagious?” When the other didn’t answer he continued, “Is…is the bullet still in there? Or did your healing push it out like the lycans in Underworld?” Nothing other than a murderous look. “You seriously left the bullet, the source of the poison, in you. Are _you stupid_?”

“Start the car…or I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth,” Derek snarled.

Stiles stared at him. Derek glared back. He turned the key in the ignition. “That’s a yes then,” Stiles muttered, pulling back onto the road. He had to remember he couldn’t just dump this guy in the woods. Scott needed him – Stiles was a demon but he knew nothing about controlling werewolfy rage. _Scott needs him, Scott needs him_. First they needed to get the bullet out, then they needed to treat the wolfsbane poisoning. Wolfsbane. He slammed on the brakes, pulling over to the side in a jerky motion that had Derek bracing himself against the door.

“Stiles!” he barked, and _hey, the guy actually knows my name_. Stiles twisted to face the wolf again.

“Can you smell the type of wolfsbane they used?”

“What?” Derek’s brows wrinkled. A fine sheen of sweat was starting to appear on his face, and the guy’s eyes were flickering blue on and off.

“I mean, if you had a bunch of wolfsbane, would you be able to tell what kind you need by smell?”

“…maybe, why?”

Stiles checked that the road was clear and pulled a u-turn. “If Scott can’t get the bullet, I may still be able to help.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything,” Derek was literally growling now, irritated by Stiles’ reticence.

The demon grinned. “We’re going to my house.”

* * *

Derek’s demands for an explanation started to peter out as the neared his house and the sun sank in the sky.

Stiles’ phone chimed just as he pulled into the driveway, no police cruiser in sight. Good.

**From: Scott**

just been invited to stay for dinner. help!

 

**From: Stiles**

found the bullet yet?

 

**From: Scott**

haven’t had a chance. no time alone

 

 _I bet_ , Stiles smirked.

**From: Stiles**

keep looking! I think I found something that might help on my end though. I’ll let you know

 

Stiles shoved the phone back in his pocket and looked over at Derek, who had been silent during the exchange. The wolf’s eyes were back to normal but unfocused, even as sweat dripped down his face. “Hey dude, get out. We’re here.”

Derek’s breathing was coming in hard as he stumbled out, and Stiles actually had to wrap one arm around the man’s waist to get him up the single cement stair and through the door. They’d just made it to the kitchen when Derek doubled over, retching. Black bile went all over the linoleum, spattering both their shoes.

“Ugh, that’s disgusting.” He dropped the man into a kitchen chair. “If you like that jacket, I suggest you have it off before I get back,” Stiles said. He didn’t check to see if Derek obeyed, dashing upstairs to his room. He snatched the bestiary off his desk along with the dictionary and translated notes, then pulled out the box under his bed. It was simple cardboard, filled with mason jars of dried purple and green powders. Stiles had spent all of last night cataloguing and labeling them based on smell, color, and use. It was amazing what the internet could do these days.

He went back downstairs as fast as possible without tripping over his own feet. Derek was still where he’d left him, and had managed to get both jacket and t-shirt off in the interim. _Hello, abs_ , Stiles thought, then shook his head. He could ogle the dying werewolf later, if what he was about to do didn’t kill him or provoke Derek into killing him. The wound was in the open air now, and Stiles could see that the blackness had spread even in the time it took to get home. He set the load down with a thump on the table. Derek startled at the noise, like he hadn’t been watching Stiles walk in.

“What…” he left the words unfinished as Stiles pulled two jars out of the box. One was labeled _Nordic Blue_ and the other _Trailing White_. If Stiles were a hunter, or in any way inclined toward making wolfsbane bullets, these were the two he’d use, as they had the best lethal functions on werewolves.

“Wolfsbane,” Stiles answered the unspoken question. “This is gonna suck for your lungs, but I need you to sniff these and figure out which one you’ve got in your bloodstream.”

When Derek didn’t answer, Stiles started to unscrew the lid of the _Trailing White_. As soon as the cap came off, Derek shuddered, rearing back like a startled horse and practically throwing himself off the chair in a bid to escape. He only made it as far as the edge of his vomit puddle before collapsing. “Dude!” Stiles screwed the cap back on and stepped over. The werewolf was on his side, eyes glazed. Stiles left him there, not wanting him to choke if he vomited again, instead smacking the man’s face lightly. “Hey, Derek, a little help here!” But the man didn’t respond. Great. How was he supposed to pick the right wolfsbane now? The wrong one would only hasten the damage. Stiles kneeled, sitting back on his heels. Derek had landed injured side up, the stark black of the poison even more apparent against his paper white skin, and Stiles knew they didn’t have much time.

He leaned forward and sniffed. Nothing but the familiar copper of blood.  Blood and the faint scent of something floral, but nowhere near distinctive enough to discern the species – he simply didn’t have a werewolf’s nose. So the only option…Stiles grimaced. He’d just have to hope his demon blood would protect him.

Agile fingers darted out, pressing the sides of the wound. Derek emitted a hoarse cry of pain, but even as Stiles watched he slipped further into unconsciousness. _Nothing for it then_. He took his hand away, fingers covered in black-red blood, and licked.

It had been a long time since he’d tasted blood, outside his own when he bit his tongue, but the taste was normally distinctive and full of life. Derek’s blood was distinctive in another way, and he tasted like death. Stiles spat into the vomit puddle, his tongue already tingling where the poison touched it.

“Nordic blue,” he said, standing. “Now what do I do with it?” He grabbed his notes, flipping through until he found _zatrucie tojad_ – aconite poisoning. _Burn to ashes and rub into the wound_ , it said. “That’s it?” The lack of info explained how he didn’t remember translating it.

Stiles prepped quickly, grabbing the steel bowl from last week and dumping a handful of the purple powder inside – but his lighter was upstairs. Stiles grimaced, checking the wolf one the floor who was still out cold. _Whatever_ , he groused, and set the powder alight with a snap of his fingers. He had to pull his shirt up quickly when it smoked, but just as quickly died.

He picked up the bowl and turned to the werewolf. “You ready for this?” But of course Derek didn’t answer. Stiles kneeled, dumping the ash into his right hand. “Here we go,” he murmured, and trickled the ashes over the wound. Derek’s whole body seized, blue smoke and hazy light pouring from his arm even as the man sat up with a strangled gasp.

And promptly threw up black goo all over Stiles’ lap.

* * *

The hum of magic prodded at his senses when they pulled up in front of the video store. From the cruiser Stiles could see a crowd of people, the flashing lights of more police and EMTs. In the back of one ambulance, Lydia clung to a visibly shaking Jackson. _Son of a bitch_. Jackson had probably seen something, and Lydia – well, he could only hope she was fine. The magic was buzzing close by, and it felt angry and sinister. Stiles looked up – right into the eyes of two beta werewolves. Scott jerked back when his gaze met Stiles, but Derek just glared and snapped at Scott before turning away. _Asshole._ The guy hadn’t even apologized for ruining his favorite pair of jeans after Stiles saved his life.

Then Jackson called his dad a two-bit rent-a-cop, and Stiles’ world bled red. “You motherfucking-” he bit out, and if he had werewolf strength the cruiser door would be a dented mess under the crushing pressure of his grip. He wrenched away, stalking around the building where he couldn’t see Jackson’s face just asking for a knife through the eye socket. Whittemore was one of the few humans who could consistently get under his skin, his combination of arrogance and insecurity playing out so that Stiles didn’t even get the urge to torture him so much as end the boy’s existence permanently. _Not gonna think about it right now_ , Stiles thought, fighting to get his fingers to stop digging red crescents into his palms. _There are more important things to think about than that dickbag_. Like the werewolves dropping from the roof just as he rounded the corner. He quickened his pace.

“Did you find anything?” Stiles said, mostly to Scott, but Derek crossed his arms and growled at him.

“No,” Scott said, casting a glance between them, “the alpha was gone by the time we got here and Derek can’t track him.” The boy was visibly frustrated, every muscle pulled taut like a bowstring.

“His scent is different when he’s not transformed,” Derek grunted at them both. “There’s no way to know which is his with all the people milling around out there.”

Stiles could only nod, finally distracted from his anger. “What about the roof?” Both wolves looked confused at the non sequitur. “I mean, what’s up there?”

“Nothing,” Scott said slowly. When Stiles turned to Derek, the man just looked back, stone-faced.

“Oh come on, neither of you can feel that?” Stiles didn’t exactly want to open this can of worms in front of his friend, but he didn’t have time to get up there himself before Dad came looking for him. “Look Scott, just jump up and double-check for me, okay? There’s something weird going on.” He gave his friend the best pleading look he could muster, and though it didn’t have half the power of Scott’s puppy-eyes, it was enough to get the job done.

“Okay, fine,” Scott sighed, turning to scale the wall even as Derek grunted a protest, glaring harder at them both. Scott disappeared over the lip of the roof. A second later his head popped back into view, eyes so wide Stiles could see the whites even from this distance in the dark. “Derek, come up here!”

The dark man didn’t hesitate, jumping and vaulting the edge of the roof in one smooth motion in the space between blinks. Stiles stepped back to wait. And wait. He looked around, scanning the alley and another parking lot lit up in red and blue as the neighboring buildings reflected light from the police vehicles.

“Scotty?” Stiles called.

Scott chose the next moment to drop down next to him. “Dude, there’s one of those, uh, revenge spiral things up there. I don’t know why we didn’t see it before, it’s _huge_ ,” he said. And then Derek was in front of them both, eyes glowing and half-way to wolfing out.

“How do you know what it is?” he asked Scott, then turned with narrowed eyes to Stiles. “And how did you know it was there?” Oh great, and now Derek was sporting the claws and fangs. Lovely.

“Stiles told me,” Scott said, turning to him. _Great, way to throw me to the literal wolves, buddy_.

“Uh,” was all he managed to get out before he heard Dad calling his name. Scott looked in that direction, but Derek only cocked his head, not breaking his eye lock with Stiles. “Oh, would you look at that, Dad’s calling me. And you,” he pointed at the leather-clad werewolf, “start thinking about what a werewolf in Beacon Hills would be after revenge for.” Before either could speak, he took off to the front of the store where Dad was probably already waiting with a lecture for disappearing.

* * *

The thing about Lydia was, she reminded Stiles incredibly of himself. Before death, before selling his soul to Hell, he had been she. And she had been smart, vivacious and beautiful for her era in a way that drew many lovers for work and pleasure. She’d also been cunning and thoroughly vicious in a manner he’s barely glimpsed in Lydia Martin. The redhead has the ember of it, somewhere in her, an ember that could burst into dark fire under the right circumstances. Part of him hopes that never happens, but the larger part burning with hellfire longs to see her unrestrained, beautiful and destructive as a wildfire. Maybe that’s why he’s a little in love with her – you can only wholly love or hate someone you see so much of yourself in, and no matter what he’s become, Stiles loves himself.

He doesn’t love Lydia’s mom though, because _seriously_ , the woman just left her drugged-up daughter alone in a room with a teenage boy she’s never seen before. If Stiles had been anyone else, Lydia would be in serious trouble. Still, he takes the opportunity to stroke her hair a little, because he’s a demon and has no qualms about a tiny bit of non-consensual touching. The girl leans into it, and if he had to make a guess he’d say she’s in that blissful state between drug-induced apathy and a total breakdown. Her mother isn’t with her, and Stiles had seen that asshat Jackson at school. Just a glimpse, otherwise he’d have been after the kid for that comment about his dad.

So it’s Lydia Martin, alone against the world and whatever she’d seen last night. “It was a mountain lion,” she said, voice completely unconcerned. Stiles sighed and stood up.

“Okay, I think it’s time for you to take a nap now,” he murmured, nudging her to the head of the bed. She flopped a little, ungraceful in a way she would never be in her right mind. With a few tugs, he pulled the duvet out and tucked it around her as the girl’s eyes fluttered. She made a sound of distress and his hand went to her brow automatically, stroking her hair in a soothing gesture. “Shh,” he whispered. “Just sleep.”

It’s bringing up memories he didn’t like to think about – _a little girl with tightly coiled black hair, face shining with sweat in the firelight, the daughter she is going to lose_ – he jerked away, almost flailing in his haste to get off the bed. _I_ don’t _want to think about that_ , he told himself firmly. _We’re not going to think about that._

Her cell phone didn’t have a password and neither did her Bluetooth, so finding and sending himself the video of the alpha bursting from the glass storefront took only a couple of minutes. Stiles cast one more look at the girl now peacefully asleep before turning to leave the room. He’d done what he could, now he’d just have to hope that Scott would choose to answer his fucking phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check out my [tumblr](http://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com/) for more regular updates and fic recs!


	3. Chapter 3

Scott has always known that Stiles was…different. Hell, their first meeting consisted of a shared pack of Skittles and Stiles regaling him with the story of how he’d broken his arm and walked around with it for half a day before his mom noticed and rushed him to the hospital. So yeah, Stiles was weird, and his friend’s views on social interactions could be summed up on one of those yellow magnets titled “Circle of Trust” and a little arrow pointing toward “You” outside the circle. The circle pretty much consisted of Stiles’ dad, Scott, and Scott’s mom, in that order. Scott learned of his inclusion back in 5th grade not long after Mrs. Stilinski’s death, when Jackson shoulder-checked him into a locker and proceeded to play keep-away with his inhaler and the aid of one of Jackson’s jerk friends.

Scott could clearly recall Stiles’ sudden appearance at the end of the hall, the boy’s face dark with an expression that definitely did not belong to a little kid. He’d kicked the back of Jackson’s knees just hard enough that he stumbled, leaning in to whisper something to Jackson that Scott couldn’t hear. Whatever it was drained all the color from Jackson’s face even as he dropped the inhaler into Stiles’ waiting hand. The bully practically fled with his friend in tow and Scott could’ve sworn there were tears in his eyes, but no amount of cajoling would make Stiles tell him what he’d said.

That incident, along with a few others (his total indifference when Erica Reyes had a seizure in junior high Spanish, the glee in his eyes when he said “let’s look for a dead body”) made Scott wonder if Stiles was some kind of sociopath – and because Stiles was the friend he talked to about anything and everything, Scott asked and was treated to a long, adderall-fueled lecture about how “that Sherlock show is a better portrayal of Aspergers and anyway, psychopathy and sociopathy are misused terms for various degrees of anti-social personality disorder and also yeah, probably.”

Stiles also held on to grudges with both hands and the memory-span of a particularly vengeful elephant, because even though Jackson never laid hands on Scott again, Stiles was extremely hostile and defensive in his presence. That only got worse after Jackson started going out with Lydia Martin, and Stiles only relaxed even a little around Danny “because everyone loves Danny, but he’s friends with that raging douche and I’m judging him so hard.”

There wasn’t much Scott could do besides accept it, because despite how different they were Stiles had been his best and only friend. For Scott, at least, Stiles would exercise patience and restraint…with one exception.

Mr. Argent shot the mountain lion in the parking lot. While everyone crowded around to watch its last breaths, Scott stayed frozen at the edge of the crowd. Sherriff Stilinski had gotten hit by a car. Sheriff Stilinski had gotten hurt in Scott’s presence, and while he couldn’t smell any blood, Scott was willing to be the man had some deep bruising that would set him limping for a few days. _Shit._

Stiles was going to be pissed.

* * *

 

Stiles _was_ pissed, but more at himself than Scott. _I should have been there_ , was the thought that kept running around his brain in dizzying circles. What use was he if he couldn’t do his damn job? Protecting Dad was the only reason he was still in this God-forsaken town. _That’s not true_ , his treacherous mind whispered, calling up images of Scott and Melissa. He’d made no pact with them, but he considered them his. His humans – his family. Stiles was attached, more human than he’d been since his death, and that pissed him off too.

So he took out his anger on Scott with lacrosse balls. It was surprising cathartic for an activity that didn’t leave his victim bleeding; Stiles made a mental note of it.

He also didn’t like Scott’s conclusions. “This whole ‘women make you weak’ thing is a little too Spartan warrior for me,” Stiles told him as he packed the gear back in his locker. “You’re honestly better off working for control over your emotions rather than just avoiding things that make you happy.”

“But you’ve seen Derek, that guy’s totally alone!”

“Since when are you following his example? Hell, why did you even go to Derek for anything in the first place? Trying to get information out of him is like pulling teeth, and he’s not exactly the pinnacle of werewolfitude,” Stiles cut in.

Scott blinked, turning away from the bank of lockers to stare at him. “I ran into the Alpha,”

Stiles’ jaw dropped in shock. “What!” he shouted and, noticing the stares of the other boys, leaned in to hiss, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You weren’t answering your phone!” Scott said, arms crossing defensively.

_I didn’t want to listen to your pissbaby apologies_ , Stiles thought uncharitably, but sighed. “C’mon, let’s go somewhere quiet.”

* * *

 

The story was fairly short and contained far too much imagery about the Allison’s porcelain skin and glossy hair, but the spiral got his attention.

“And you said you asked Derek about it?”

“Yeah, but…he told me to ask you?” The confusion was back full force, reminding Stiles that he’d promised Scott an explanation the other night.

“Okay, so when you got bit, I did some digging through the internet and through some books in the attic. You remember that Mom really liked mythology?” At Scott’s hesitant nod, he went on. “Well most of her books are in Polish, but I’ve been working on translating her bestiary-”

“Uh, don’t you mean-”

“No, _not_ bestiality. A bestiary is a book of mythological creatures, and that includes werewolves. It’s where I found the first really accurate info about lycanthropy and…” Stiles hesitated. He could probably lie, even to wolfy ears – everyone knew demons were born for that sort of thing, but he really didn’t want to. Sooner or later he was going to do something that cast suspicion on his questionable humanity, and it was better that he get that out of the way. (And, just maybe, it would be nice to tell the truth for once.) He sighed. “Turns out you’re not the only one with supernatural inclinations. My Mom was a druid.”

Scott stared at him.

Stiles cleared his throat. “You have no idea what that is, do you?”

“Uh, maybe? Something about witches and talking in rhyme.”

“No, dude. You’re thinking of Charmed. Though druids do the whole spells and incantations part, they’re more focused on earth-centered stuff. Keeping the balance. But yeah, magic.”

“…Your Mom was _magic_?” Scott’s expression seemed torn between disbelief and badly disguised awe. Stiles sat up a little straighter, something like pride filling his chest. Mom’s magic had been nothing to scoff at, and even after she’d given it up Claudia had observed the rituals associate with each holiday and kept meticulous recordings of Beacon Hills’ ley lines and supernatural goings-on. Her magic was such that, even with the vast power it took to suppress his inhumanity, he still had a spark left over to work with. Claudia Stilinski had been amazing, and if Stiles still lit a black candle every Cold Moon after her death, that was his business.

“Does that mean that you’re magic too?” Scott asked, interrupting his thought process.

Stiles grinned. “If I am, it’s just a little bit.” It wasn’t a lie. “But anyway, you can imagine how crazy I’ve been going on the research since I found out – that’s how I came across the spirals…”

* * *

 

Stiles didn’t like Scott’s boss. It’s not that the man’s ever done anything to him – they only met in passing when Scott introduced them – but Deaton unsettles him. A lot of that has to do with the power he can sense churning under the man’s skin. It’s nowhere near what Claudia had, but what’s there is firm and grounded enough that he thinks the vet is some sort of hedge witch, or maybe a druid very well-trained in suppressing his power. From the look in the man’s eyes when they shook hands, Deaton could sense Stiles right back. With his mother’s magic layered over his darkness, he only came off as a regular human, albeit one with a well of untapped power. Deaton never said anything, but Stiles could feel the weight of his gaze whenever he came to pick up Scott after work.

The man’s preternatural calm was the main sticking point – it reminded him disturbingly of Alistair, Hell’s head torturer, whenever the demon was pulled away from his work for a meeting with the higher-ups. Alistair chose to show his disdain for the whole production with a curious lack of affect.

Even with long experience in the torturer’s company, Stiles hadn’t even been able to get over just how fucking creepy the other demon was – he was willing to bet a year’s worth of deals that Alistair knew something the rest of them didn’t and was just biding his time and was just waiting for the day he had them all back on the rack. Even that bastard Azazel hadn’t inspired the same level of wariness and revulsion in Stiles, so he was understandably wary in the presence of a human that reminded him so much of Alistair in secret-keeping if not cruelty.

So yeah, he didn’t like Alan Deaton, and Stiles couldn’t stop the snort that escaped when Scott told him what was going on.

“What’s funny?” Scott demanded, his voice climbing to a pitch Stiles hadn’t heard since eighth grade. Stiles pulled the phone away from his ear

“Nothing. Just, Derek’s pretty fucked up if he’s mistaking _your boss_ as an Alpha. Dude has too much magic to be a werewolf,” Stiles said, pulling out the box of wolfsbane from under the bed. He tossed three jars into an empty duffel bag. _Now where did Dad leave the bolt-cutters…_

“What.” Scott’s voice went flat at the other end of the line. Stiles sighed. Already forgetting punctuation? Before they knew it, Scott would be reduced to growling and angry eyebrows. Apparently Derek Hale was contagious.

* * *

 

Admittedly, the school wasn’t a good idea. Neither was calling the Alpha, but Scott wanted to prove to Derek that Deaton wasn’t the Alpha, and that was the quickest thing Stiles could come up with.

Blood spurted from Derek’s mouth and Stiles felt his heart stop. _Shit shit shit, son of a bitch!_ He dragged Scott out of range as Derek hit a wall twenty feet away. The Alpha was a hulking, twisted thing that could barely be taken for wolf-like and it was all Stiles could do to yank Scott along, snatching up the bolt cutters as they ran. He jammed them through the door handles as soon as Scott was through.

“Think that’ll hold?” Scott asked.

“Nope.”

“Great,” he sighed. “Should we call the police?”

Stiles threw him an utterly disagreeable look.

“What? A parking lot full of cars – they’ve got guns!”

“And it takes a special wolfsbane bullet to take a beta like Derek down. Regular bullets are like, bee stings to an alpha! We’re not risking my dad. End of story.” It was a marker of how well Scott knew Stiles that his friend didn’t bother arguing after that. Good man, Scotty.

Then the unwanted cavalry arrived, and it was all Stiles could do not to put his face in his hands. If they got through the night without him throwing Jackson in the Alpha’s path, it would be a testament to his improved self-control.

Admittedly, seeing Lydia mix up a Molotov on the fly was a beautiful thing. In any other situation he’d probably be just a little more distracted by it – he had a competency kink. As it was, before Scott could slip out the door with it, Stiles pressed one of his smaller jars into Scott’s hands.

“If you miss with the Molotov, throw this in his face. Don’t breathe it in yourself, okay?”

“What is it?” Scott hissed, casting furtive looks at the others.

“Wolfsbane,” Stiles replied in a normal tone that made Lydia’s eyes narrow and Allison and Jackson look at him even as Scott flinched, miming “shut up!” with just a jerk of his head.  “Go,” Stiles said, pushing his friend towards the door. He didn’t want Scott to leave either, but there wasn’t much choice. The door clicked as Scott turned the key on the other side.

“Stiles,” Lydia called in a calm voice that belied her true feelings, “why did you give Scott a jar of aconite? Inhaling it won’t be fast enough to do anything.”

Stiles turned back to the trio, looking at Allison’s tear-stained face, the way Lydia’s red nails dug into the hem of her jacket, and the absolute terror hidden behind Jackson’s terribly false smirk. He could tell them, right here and now. It would make things easier – much as Scott was terrified of Allison hating him, the girl was an Argent: she was bound to find out eventually, considering her family history and Chris Argent’s barely-concealed suspicious disdain. Lydia Martin was a goddess in human form, and Stiles had no doubt that given time and the right clues she would figure it out herself and then punish them all for lying to her. Jackson he could care less about either way, but it was about time he realized that he was a big fish from a small pond being dropped into a shark-infested ocean. It would give him great pleasure to see the douche squirm. If he told them, he could answer their questions, twist words in their favor.

Stiles looked at his feet. “Stiles?” she asked again, words prickling with warning.

On the other hand, Scott would hate him for ruining his chances with Allison, whose father would hunt his friend down and mount his head on a stick as soon as look at him.

An outcome he could control versus his best friend’s naïveté. It shouldn’t be such a hard decision.

“It’s not my secret to tell,” Stiles said, finally looking up to meet their eyes, “but I’m going to tell you anyway. Werewolves are real.”

Jackson took a sharp breath – Stiles didn’t miss his hand flying to the back of his neck. “Werewolves.” Lydia’s voice dripped with skepticism, but Allison was staring at Stiles with shaking hands clutched around her pendant so hard it was probably biting into her skin.

“Werewolves,” he confirmed, leaning against the door with both hands in his pockets. “Derek isn’t the one chasing us. It’s an alpha werewolf, we don’t know his identity.” _Breathe Stiles, moment of truth_. “He bit Scott a few weeks back, and he’s been trying to get him to join his pack ever since. We were here with Derek trying to figure out who the Alpha is.”

“You honestly expect us to believe this?” It wasn’t Lydia that broke in, but Allison. “I mean, really, _werewolves_? You couldn’t have come up with a better lie?” Her voice broke on the last word, and she was glaring at him with tear-filled eyes. Stiles raised his hands as both girls glared at him.

“If I was lying, I could have come up with a better one, yes. But I’m not. You guys didn’t wonder how a human could bust through a bolted and reinforced door? It’s not like the guy was carrying a battering ram with him! The only explanation for that is superhuman strength-”

“Werewolves aren’t real!” Allison yelled. “Scott- Scott’s not-”

“Allison,” Stiles cut in as gently as he could manage, because he really did like this girl. “Do you really believe werewolves don’t exist after tonight, or are you just refusing to accept that Scott is one?”

Moonlight gave her pale skin an unearthly sheen and turned her brown eyes into pools of black, but she couldn’t look less demonic as she gaped, at loss for words. She was saved from replying by a howl full of agony and a sharp note of command. It echoed through the halls, rattling Stiles’ ribcage where his back pressed against the door.

Half a second later Jackson, who’d been suspiciously quiet until now, sank to his knees, clutching the back of his neck and crying out in pain. “Jackson!” Lydia called, but it was Allison who dropped down beside him. As soon as the howl cut out Jackson was scrambling to his feet, but not before Stiles finally saw what had been hurting him.

“What the fuck is that?!” Stiles said, reaching to jerk at the boy’s collar. In the dim light he could make out four puncture wounds, one was partially buried in hair.

“Back off, Stilinski,” barked Jackson, slapping at his hand.

“He’s had them for a while, but won’t tell me about them,” Lydia chimed in, arms crossed as she stared at them thoughtfully. Stiles whipped his head back to Jackson, grabbing the human again.

“Fuck you, Whittemore, those are claw marks. Who made them?” When Jackson tried to shove him away Stiles shook him hard. “Tell me it wasn’t the Alpha. _Who clawed you_?” Stiles didn’t take much notice as his voice dropped a couple registers, but the others did. Jackson shrunk into himself and both girls took a wary step back.

“It was Hale! Derek Hale, okay?” Jackson shouted back, stumbling when Stiles suddenly released his grip with a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank Go- well, good. Derek isn’t an alpha, so you’re not gonna turn. The last thing this town needs is another out-of-control wolf.”

Jackson looked smaller than Stiles had ever seen him, but it was Lydia’s calculating stare that drew his attention. The girl was too smart for her own good – he loved it.

There was a cracking sound from outside the room: the key breaking, as Stiles would later find out. It snapped everyone back into the present tense as Allison rushed the door, trying and failing to yank it open as Stiles moved out of the way.

“Scott? Scott!” she called, but there was no answer. In the distance, police sirens began to wail. He grabbed Allison’s arm, pulling her away from the door. She flinched, but didn’t yank out of his grasp as they turned to the other two.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Stiles said as Lydia tried to speak. “They won’t believe you, and even if they do, it won’t end well for anybody.” The demon looked at each teen in turn, taking in the alternating curiosity, belligerence, and fear. He licked his lips. “It won’t end well for _you_.”

* * *

 

Apparently Scott had heard the tail end of their conversation, which was all well and good because it meant that Stiles didn’t have to tell him about spilling the beans.

It also meant that he had a supremely pissed best friend turning up in his room a few hours later, wolfed-out and eyes burning yellow. He growled, “Stiles.”

Stiles shut his laptop, spinning to the open window with his best nonchalant face on. When he really wanted to, he could pull off blasé like a pro. It was an extremely underutilized skill. “Hey, Scotty. Melissa’s going to blow a gasket if she finds out you’re gone when Derek’s on the loose.” And hadn’t _that_ been an extremely stupid move that Stiles had refused to correlate, simply saying “I don’t know, I couldn’t see anything,” when Dad questioned them. The others hesitantly followed his lead, another thing for Scott to get twisted up about.

“Why did you tell them?” Scott practically roared, advancing on him. Stiles held still, not moving from the desk chair. His dad had thankfully sent him home in Tara’s cruiser, too busy trying to grab a nonexistent lead on the elusive Hale.

“Someone had to,” he replied.

“They _didn’t need to know_! Allison didn’t need to know-”

“We were getting chased by a murderous alpha, Scott! They needed to know why they couldn’t just band together to take off after you. Jackson was one step from figuring it out, anyway. He probably would have told Allison just to get back at you.”  
“IT WASN’T YOUR SECRET TO TELL!” Scott had him against the wall again, both clawed fists in the collar of his shirt. He looked one step away from ripping Stiles’ throat out and currently had the fangs to do so. Stiles set a hand over one of Scott’s.

“You’re right, it wasn’t. I’m sorry.” It wasn’t a lie – he was sorry that he’d betrayed Scott’s trust, but if he could protect Scott by doing so, he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. “I just…I thought this would help.”

Scott snarled and sucked in a few heaving breaths, visibly calming, although the beta features did not recede. “I’m _so angry_ at you right now. Allison wouldn’t even look at me, let alone talk to me.”

Stiles bit back the first five replies that jumped to mind, all along the lines of “good, you should stay away from the crazy hunter family” and sighed. Scott let go, dropping Stiles against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “At least she agreed not to tell anyone?” _For now_ , her words had implied. He was going to be doing major damage control the next few days, if the look in Lydia’s eyes had meant anything. Apparently all it took was outing the supernatural to get the girl to acknowledge his existence. Stiles found himself slightly disappointed.

Scott paced to the window and back, shoulders still tight with resentment even as his facial hair receded. “God, what if she never speaks to me again?”

Stiles couldn’t help but snort. “I love how that ranks more important than her hunter dad or, I don’t know, the _psycho killer alpha_ after you!”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Scott yelled back. “You ruined everything!”  
“Don’t tell me to shut up,” he snapped. “Everything is not ruined. It’s better that she found out this way – you know if someone else tells her it could go really bad, right?”

Scott stopped pacing, his back towards Stiles. “Oh yeah, well how would you like it if I told your dad?”

Stiles froze. _Did he just_ …

Scott seems to realize what he said at the same moment. “Stiles…”

“Get out, Scott.”

The wolf stepped forward. “Stiles-”

“ _Get out_!”

* * *

 

Stiles may be furious at Scott, but that didn’t stop him from doing his job as a best friend. He overheard a conversation between Scott and Whittemore, and the next period found him shoulder-checking Jackson face-first into a locker. He didn’t give him time to recover, pressing one hand over the claw marks on the human’s neck. Obligingly, Jackson went stock-still in fear.

“What,” he hissed, “did I tell you about touching Scott.”

“I didn’t touch him!” Jackson said, though some of the tension went out of him upon hearing Stiles’ voice.

“You’ve been harassing him, threatening to tell people,” Stiles spoke, letting the jock turn to face him. “You won’t. This is bigger than you, Whittemore. You have no idea what kind of shit will come down on your head if you get the bite. Stop chasing it and shut the fuck up.”

Jackson looked him in the eye, obviously doing his level best not to look as terrified as he was. He failed. “And what’ll you do if I don’t, huh? You’re not a-a werewolf. You can’t do anything.”

Stiles’ lips tugged upwards. “There are worse things out there than werewolves.” He closed the bit of space between them, his body a shield against line-of-sight as he pressed a small knife against Jackson’s stomach just hard enough that the boy looked down and blanched. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll shut you up. There are more lives on the line than just yours, and frankly I’m getting pretty sick of your macho bullshit.”

Jackson swallowed, staring at Stiles as if to gauge how serious he was. Stiles didn’t let the smirk leave his face. “You wouldn’t. Your dad-”

Of course the kid would bring up his father. “My dad would never find your body.”

His gaze flicked up desperately. “The cameras-”

“Don’t work, or they’d already know that it wasn’t Derek who chased us through the school.” Jackson was shaking now, and it made Stiles roll his eyes. _Kid wants to be a werewolf, but can’t handle a single death threat. He’d break within a week_. “Well?” he prompted, pressing the little knife in just a tad harder. Silence. Then the boy nodded. “Say it.”

“Okay, okay! I’ll leave McCall alone. Jesus.” A moment later the blade was gone from Stiles’ hand as if it never existed.

“Good,” Stiles grinned, slapping Jackson on the shoulder. The human’s muscles were locked too tight for a full-body flinch, but he still put in a valiant effort. “Toodles.”

* * *

 

Stiles was alone for lunch that day, considering Scott wasn’t even pretending not to be avoiding him. He’d just decided to camp at the other end of the table from the quiet hulk of a kid, Boyd something, when Lydia Martin herself graced him with her presence on the opposite bench.

“What did you do to Jackson?”

“Uh, hi, Lydia,” he paused. “What makes you think I did anything?” She just glared, red nails tapping the side of her tray. Stiles sighed. “Just threatened him a little,” he admitted, watching her carefully.

Lydia sniffed, turning up her nose. “Nothing he didn’t deserve, then.” She twirled a bit of spaghetti around her fork and took a perfect, dainty bite. “Tell me about werewolves,” she demanded. Stiles put his own fork down, casting a look at Boyd; the boy was paying no attention to them, thankfully.

“Come to my house after school.”

One of Lydia’s eyebrows went up. “I may have broken up with Jackson, but I am _not_ going to date you.”

Stiles huffed. _A man can dream_. “We can talk without being overheard. I also have some books that might interest you,” he admitted. For her, he may even be willing to lend out the bestiary, though not his mother’s grimoire. For a long moment she didn’t say anything, continuing to eat, but finally hummed her assent, picked up her tray, and left. Stiles let some of the tension run out of him – if there was anyone in this forsaken town who could bring his actions back to haunt him, it was Lydia Martin. The prospect of her revenge was a little bit terrifying and arousing both, so he figured it was in his best interests to keep her happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more updates you can follow my tumblr [here](http://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com/).


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